


Un'opera seria

by FatalCookies



Category: Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatalCookies/pseuds/FatalCookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among those events which history has come to recognize as great benefit to the common welfare, most consider the death of Braxiatel to be, perhaps, the greatest of them all.</p>
<p>Were you to ask him, he would almost certainly agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. preludio

He should not have been present. But directly following the latest inquiry session there came the news, and it did not seem a stretch to follow where his immediate superior went, not when all parties who had been present there moved on, and where else would he have had to go but to where things were slowly, dreadfully happening. Quietly they watched – they could do nothing but – as the K-9 unit ticked down the remaining time, drawing from its last energy reserves to stall the seconds.

Long at last, the Coordinator interjected, the note of flustered fury barely masking his concern, “If the K-9 unit could only draw from the Capitol’s systems, until we were able to find a way to diffuse it—”

“Changing power sources now would likely just aggravate the bomb and either accelerate the countdown or cause it to go off immediately,” she said.

“Immediately follows _imminently_ , which is precisely what we have now,” said the Inquisitor, her tone wary, warning, perhaps. But she at least stood closer to the president.

“We can’t let it finalize the countdown—”

“We don’t have a choice, Coordinator,” she finished, silencing the two speakers before her, and that was that.

And Narvin watched as the K-9 unit’s power went out, and he saw as the Lady President Romanadvoratrelundar held her chin high with her eyes dark, and he saw as Inquisitor Darkel stood the closest to her and yet still left her at a solitary distance. He saw the President alone as she always kept herself and always had, and not for the first time, he saw not the lone woman standing symbolic for her planet, but the woman who stood alone.

The clock struck zero and everyone tensed under their skins, but nothing happened, nothing that they could see, and the composite of all past, present and future knowledge did not come crashing, screaming down in that instant. For the next timeless, uncounted, undiminishing instants, silence reigned.

“What happened,” Darkel demanded at last, flatly, with all the sternness she could muster in the shaken room.

“It seems nothing happened at all.”

“And are you certain of that, Coordinator?”

“Inquisitor—”

“If I were you, I would make very certain I knew what had just transpired before I went so far as to feel relieved, don’t you think?”

They talked, and then they argued. Narvin did not speak. He, too, had been shaken, and now he was watching, taking it all in as Romana’s head did not lower, as her posture did not falter. Instead her eyes grew dark and darker, until at last they slipped slowly closed. And even after that, he watched.

\--

In the days that followed, investigations and further prodding showed that the explosion was not a virus, and had done no damage to the Matrix. It was, in fact, nothing more than a front cover, a brochure, a service announcement. Everywhere you opened, and everywhere you looked, it interjected with cool and mechanical insistence. Always, it said the same thing.

_Minyos died because of us_.

And Narvin confessed, long at last, that they never had dismantled the device which had recently caused them so much trouble. It had disappeared before their eyes all those years ago – and now, they suspect, had been taken by some supporter of the free time movement in order to undermine the power and security of Gallifrey. Project Alpha had never finished and never properly terminated – not because of warnings but because of what they could not explain until this moment.

The Lady President made transparent her displeasure with the CIA’s performance, but upon this discovery, declared that it was up to the single remaining Time Lord who had been present for the project and herself, the figurehead of Gallifrey, to mend. She took Narvin to the time when he was young and standing just outside the door, and the paradox might have been worrying if they had stayed longer than they did. It was just enough time to destroy the rogue servitors and depart, leaving the device safe.

Timeline reset. A world that had for a time been saved was doomed once more. A planet perished. People died before they even had the time to inhale for their screams. Over in a matter of seconds.

And just like that, all was right with the universe, again.

\--

He could not decide if his superiors were pleased or otherwise with him, that he was left on-planet to investigate the source of the data bomb. He had no complaints. He had been perfectly contented to see Torvald made to cooperate with the savage woman that Romana had insisted be brought from the Outlands, and was entirely comfortable knowing he would not have to work with her, himself.

When they returned, he found that Torvald was none other than the savage’s husband, a liar and a traitor, and he fretted only momentarily for the reputation of the CIA and how the trend seemed to go, lately.

Then, he delivered his own news: the data bomb had the prints of another man who had known of Project Alpha, the one who all those years ago had tried to warn them against it, and who, it seemed, had made the effort to see that they would never again forget the mistake and the consequences.

“And there you have it,” Vansell had said, his lips twitching with laughter while his eyes narrowed with age-old, tired derision, “There’s the best spot of good Braxiatel ever did for Gallifrey. And after all this time...

“Pity he won’t be remembered for it, but that is what you get for breaking all of the rules.”

\--

_Among those events which history has come to recognize as great benefit to the common welfare, most consider the death of Braxiatel to be, perhaps, the greatest of them all._

_Were you to ask him, he would almost certainly agree._


	2. prima

“Coordinator. You wanted to speak with me?”

“Ah, Narvin. Good of you to show up. I’ve got a menial little task for you.”

“This is a… briefing?”

“Something of the sort. I’ve got the file just here. Small, I know, but I thought you might like something to read on the way. You’ll be going to Hfvaral VI to check up on a little funny coincidence. It shouldn’t take long.”

“I can’t say I much like the sound of ‘funny coincidence’.”

“Which is precisely why you work for the CIA.”

“Am I allowed to ask—?”

“—what the coincidence is? Nothing extraordinary, just a few visits too many for such an indulgent location, that’s all.”

“Visits from?”

“I think you can guess.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Good. Get a good look, report back. I am not anticipating anything too worrying to come up. But with how politics are faring at the moment… well. Suffice to say, it cannot hurt to be careful where our Lady President is concerned. Set up security parameters, if you feel the need. I trust you to do what’s necessary. Best to you, Commander Narvin.”

“Thank you. Coodinator Vansell.”

They each took their leave.

\--

In the hallways, through the very marble of the pillars and the polish on the floor and the paint on the tapestries, is carried the echo which, when it first touches the world, moves it, and resounds for always inside of it. For the Fveri Concert Hall, not detail had been spared: The architects and designers had taken into account every innovation in acoustics, from construction to shape down to the very material that had gone into the stage and the floors, the seats and the walls. The very atmosphere of the planetoid was supplemented with high concentrations of oxygen, not so much for the benefit of oxygen-needy life forms, indeed, but because of the heavier weight of the atom which facilitated an easier and quicker transfer of sound. From corner to corner and wall to wall, from seat to stage and sky to floor, the sound was exactly what the place had been crafted for.

The sound of distant song and that of the Commander’s footsteps, then, did not find themselves in competition, but instead, arrived with respective clarity, one close and the other far, obviously so, and neither notably muddled. Had Narvin the leisure or the mind for it, he might even have allowed himself a moment’s admiration for his surroundings.

He focused instead on the task ahead. It was no small inconvenience to find himself off-world, much less when there were other matters that would be better attended to – finalizing the security of the Academy as it planned to take in hundreds of students from varying Temporal Powers, or initiating and overseeing more thorough investigations of the rising Free Time movement, for instance – all if the Good Lady President would simply see sense and cease the meddling and minor excursions.

Vansell had been nothing if not vague during their so-called briefing, but he had at least communicated one detail astutely: this place was nothing if not absorbed with a sole, luxurious purpose. It was nearly embarrassing – would unequivocally be, had he more respect for and faith in this liberal, brash and terrifically _young_ president – to have such a representative of Gallifrey sneak about, returning, the file said, a total of four times to this petty asteroid. Ten microspans of questioning house staff and a mere five of additional research proved to demonstrate an intriguing connection which he now pursued to the backstage areas.

Upon his arrival at the back wing he flicked his wrist and the codes were scanned and it was more ceremony than anything, to speak, because he was Time Lord and recognizable for it, and more importantly he wore all the colors and had all the postures, that it rendered irrelevant the typical flat proud tones he used to announce, “Celestial Intervention Agency.”

The doors opened and Narvin stepped in, and the terminal upon his entrance presented voice retinal and code identification. He slipped in the card which he carried to the clearance access; a green light flicked on into his unblinking eyes. He did not need to look at the pad to type in the sequence his file had given him. A door to his far left opened and he entered, coming into the warm, still, waiting dark.

He went forward, passing onward through the shadow-desaturated enclosed hallway, through as it tunneled into a point out from the dim and the dim deep carpets and tall walls, and into the light at the end of the walk which opened wide into the open high ceiling of a room where the breath was held in patient stillness. Filigree upon the moulding curled, contoured to catch the air and let it circle through and amplify, and above and before Narvin the ceiling rose and domed with wide white arches looming, between these the walls adorned with frescoes done in burgundy, coming to a pinnacle of circular white which then diminished across the space, back into the pillars and the widening walls where a half-moon circle of a dozen mirrors graced them; and before them, a lone figure, a creator, small by bodily comparison and massive in his occupancy which made the décor and the air and all seem entirely his own.

His reflection touched every glass.

This was the man, to be certain, marked by his countenance between space-opulent walls: a light build, slender face, the first quiet inclination and genteel posture which lent itself in contrast to no shortage of eccentricity, and there would be that with an air of performance enough to occupy every corner, yes, it was characteristic of any artist – there could be no mistaking him. He appeared exactly as Narvin would have expected, of this type. He cleared his throat from the doorway. The man looked up and into his mirror and, upon spotting Narvin, let dawn an amiable expression across his features.

“Hello,” he greeted, and whether it was the acoustics or his craft, the voice touched as easily across the room as if the two of them were speaking face to face and at no respectable distance away. “You must excuse me, I wasn’t expecting company—?”

“Commander Narvin of the Celestial Intervention Agency,” Narvin stated in supply of an answer.

The man smiled serenely, twelve times seen and once more besides, intimate and hidden. “Not the head-man, then. That is good, I find that the higher up one manages, the stuffier the bureaucrats are. Though, I suppose, you _could_ still put me under arrest, couldn’t you?”

“That depends, doesn’t it,” Narvin grimaced derisively. “Am I to understand you have been in contact with certain prominent members of the High Council of Gallifrey.” It was not a question but an interrogation, really, and there could be no mistaking it.

Amiably – or perhaps graciously in acceptance of the situation – the singer rose to his feet and lightly trapped the space under his palm between his thumb and first two fingers. “Ah,” he said, the reflections in the mirror still the only ones speaking, “are you here to slap my wrists, Commander?”

“Hardly.” Narvin huffed stiffly around a purely business sort of frown. “I am here to establish security parameters and to begin minor investigations.”

“Against me?”

“Surrounding you, of course.”

“Well,” the singer allowed, “I suppose that is all right then.”

A long moment passed when, at last, the man turned. He stood and lifted his face and smiled, stepping forward once, then twice, with languid patience and some assuredness as though his crossing would come in due time, perhaps in time less than the space would entail, because he occupied it and took it up so easily, so happily. More than ever, now, Narvin found that the whole affair was horrendously off-putting. He frowned deeper as the man approached and came then within ten feet of him, and still walked forward, slowly.

“You are correct, of course – I have been in correspondence with one Lady Romanadevola— it was long and complicated for such a trifle as a name, forgive me, I cannot claim to remember it all. I had the most fortunate opportunity to get caught in the same traffic – I believe she was on her way to a conference, something about negotiations with temporal powers, sounded dreadfully dull – and I was on my way here. Checkpoint security, I am certain you know the type. I invited her to come along. She couldn’t make it.”

“How interesting,” Narvin said. “We have records of her attending here to this very asteroid at the very same times as your performances. It is, in fact, the only commonality between her visits.”

The man stopped walking, and smiled. “She couldn’t make that particular showing,” he clarified.

“But the next one?”

“Nor that one.”

“But—”

“My fourth. And then to my fifth, my seventh, and my eighth. Tonight is the ninth performance, this tour, but she told me she would be caught up with a school, and some foreign students who she was hoping would attend. She seemed terribly excited, and I rather was, for her.”

Narvin frowned more deeply as he permitted himself, only instantly, the regret of not being exactly there, on his own planet overseeing their own affairs at this very moment. After that allowance, he removed the file from the breast pocket of his robe and unfolded the parchment, piece by piece.

“Oh, my,” the man said, and Narvin could hear the smirk through his voice, “that does look serious.”

“You find yourself in correspondence with the High President of the oldest and most advanced species in the whole of time and space—”

“Debatable, but go on.”

“—don’t you _think_ it is bound to be rather serious?”

The singer smiled and lifted his hand with a vague gesture of his fingers. “Should I,” he murmured, “read that?”

“I am here to establish security parameters and to begin—”

“Minor investigations. Surrounding me, you said. I remember.”

Narvin flashed the man a not-smile though it had all the right motions of one, because it was a warning and a danger to see the tucking of his lips into his cheeks and hear the flat dim forced chuckle which entered the air and curled between it as easily as though the sound had been made for it, or the place for the sound. He went promptly on before the man could interrupt him again: “Then you should be well aware that I have acquired certain accesses, such as these back halls, your rooms, and likely any other places you, yourself, might be able to sneak off to. With that said, it would be much easier for the both of us if you were to guarantee your cooperation as we proceed on.” With that, he held the creased parchment out to the man. “Sign here,” Narvin said.

The singer watched him for a moment more, smiling faintly as he turned his eyes down to the parchment and kept the gaze there. He gestured aside then, toward the wall where a slender stretch of countertop hugged the right wall of the room. Together they approached and as he reached beneath the marble, opened a drawer and took up a pen, he murmured, “I am flattered, Commander.”

“Is that so,” Narvin asked flatly.

The singer sat. His eyes focused down on the page and his hand took position, and at last, he clarified. “But of course. It is not every day that a member of the CIA asks me for my autograph. I am most obliged.” Even from this angle, Narvin could see him smiling.

“Charmed.” Narvin resisted the urge to snap. “Now, if you would just sign _here_.”

He did. From beneath his palm bloomed a myriad of flourish, curlicues, and wide, open shapes. Complete nonsense and all pretension – nothing Narvin was unaccustomed to, to be certain, but neither a thing which made the time more well-spent. The corners of Narvin’s mouth twitched downward, and he nodded him on even though the man was not looking but merely sat with his pen hovering over the page, still and patient and perhaps waiting for the command.

“Print your name. Legibly, if you would.”

He did, until the ink on the paper read _Vitale Birragni_. At the last moment, he flourished his hand and crossed above the last ‘i’ to dot it. Narvin permitted himself a vague heavenward glance of his eyes.

“Well then. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Narvin took the page from the counter and tucked it away, for safekeeping. His body turned with the motion and though the singer did not follow after him, he watched still as Narvin came into profile and kept turning.

“Guaranteed, scrawl and all. Will you be staying?”

Narvin, who had at that moment nearly made to take his leave, found himself half of a centimeter away from scoffing and barely managed to swallow the inclination, instead putting forward a horrendously civil and vaguely incredulous “Pardon?”

“For the show,” he said. Birragni said. Narvin looked at him with harsh oddness and Vitale kept his head forward while his eyes watched the Time Lord with intent curiosity and unperturbed good humor.

“I am—”

“—here to establish security parameters and to begin minor investigations not against but surrounding me, yes, I know. But will you be staying to listen?”

“You must really fancy the sound of your own voice. Not that I’d expect any less – but I _am_ impressed that you find it so absolutely necessary, to continually interrupt me just to hear it.”

“That,” he said, smiling, and finally turning to look directly at him, “depends wholly upon you, actually. Upon whether or not you admire the sound enough to let me interrupt that busy, clamorous head – I mean no offense, everyone’s is – and let me fill the silence for you.”

Narvin pressed his tongue fiercely against the back of his teeth. “Do excuse,” he said. The knives and bullets were beginning to sneak into his tone. “I have a job to do.”

“So do I. By all means—” he spread his arms with more flow than grandeur, “—investigate what you will, and listen, if you choose. I trust you can do the two at once.” And then, the singer smiled, turning slowly away to approach the mirrors. Narvin saw as he put his fingertips to the side of his throat, and even as the distance fell back into place between them, he spoke, and the sound filled and demonstrated nothing of the space it had to fill, “But, of course, I would not refuse your wish, Commander, not when we’ve already been getting on so well. By all means – you _are_ excused.”

In all twelve mirrors across the room, there must have been one that showed the way Narvin scowled, dipped his head and took his leave as promptly as professionalism would allow him, and exited – it could not be fleeing because he was a spy first and foremost and confrontation was not a spy’s job – as quickly as his patience would force him.

\--

With most of the design aesthetic revolving around domes and arches, there were few corners in the floorplan, meaning essentially that there were equally few nooks in which would-be assassins might hide. The record of the place, as it turned up, was flawless. Narvin did not like to be without his staser, but was only vaguely put off at the request that he leave it outside of the main lobby, and less once he noted the safekeeping locker system which would be keeping it far out of reach. Issued identification card and a match of print scan required for retrieval. The two needed to match up if one was going to later retrieve their weapon – or make an attempt to steal it. The rooms outside, he found, were supplied with systems programmed to deactivate or otherwise put into a safe mode more than six thousand automated weapon super-types. There was a staff upwards of two hundred, and yet more androids instructed to intervene at the slightest suspicious behavior, and report immediately to one of forty superintendents who had access to both security and medical services.

As it was described to Narvin, they had too many important people from too many systems pass through to leave anything to chance. It was practically diplomacy, making sure that no one caused such affront to anyone else, via death or injury, in such a way that political conflict would enter – he might dare to venture that it would interrupt – the very reason for the Fveri Hall, the asteroid with its singular indulgent auditory purpose.

Narvin could find no immediate reason for caution except for his years of experience which told him that he should not be so trusting so quickly. He never had been in all of his life, and now was hardly the time to start.

He obliged, nonetheless, for one further investigation. A thought experiment, or perhaps an indulgence in curiosity, if he was to be frank, but he knew by now that the more seen during these times could only provide further insight. So he allowed them to take, for a time, his staser and allowed them again the stamp on his fingerprint. He tucked the card away and entered the main foyer and was promptly escorted to the upper floor with the smaller auditoriums – or so he was informed – and he accepted the invitation insofar as he entered, standing at the back, apart from the crowd as they settled in and spoke their constant unanimous humming, together. When the lights dimmed, he let his gaze sift over them as they became shapeless and singular, a would-be oppressive mass against the opening of a massive red curtain and behind it, the slender impossibly small contradiction who needed no microphone to be heard, not with a room like this, made for the carriage of the sound. The music started. The performer crossed brusquely the stage, not hurried, making his way to center in time to bring his posture to full intent.

It rose through one part staccato and one part background, both done in strings, and cutting through it, a clear tone which belonged, of course, to the occupant of the stage. Some words, a held note with a purposeful waver. Narvin was not impressed. Not for upwards of a microspan. Not until the music spiraled to a brief pause, a build, and the singer set his arms by his side and widened his stance and lifted one hand high above his head with his fingers outstretched as if to touch something taller and higher and infinitely bigger than himself or the space surrounding him. He opened his mouth.

All in an instant, Narvin understood that the arrogance must merely have been a product not of the man but of the quiet self-assurance which stood in contrast to this ability which scaled entirely beyond any reasonable belief. Because the first time, it could merely have been a slight of hand, a trick of the eye and ear alike. It could as easily have been the whine of an instrument, for how high and sharp the tone, even when it tapered off into an organic vibrato: because no voice had ever made the hairs on the back of Narvin’s neck stand on end. But when the man threw his head back and turned aside so that all could see the flexing of his ribs, the pull of his throat and the quiver at the corner of his lips, there was no doubt of his voice, which the first piercing note had rendered unimaginable.

The song rose, stretched impossibly, reaching until it might have been little more than the width of a spider’s thread, somehow both fragile and unbreakable. The melody itself suspended the air in a timeless, still eternity. Now, the smooth nearly-spoken and almost conversational notes between were all suspense, all building, and he shattered their belief twice, then, thrice, each time holding notes until they had to end, not because of an incapacity to hold them but because they begged to, because there was nothing else more right to be done for their elegance, because to keep going would mean to make less handsome the air which might slice open above them. And, when they ended – when the song itself came to a respectful, rightful close, only then did time begin again and release their hearts from a most delicate and desperate anticipation.  

A full instant of silence followed, an oppressive sound after that which had preceded it. At last the crowd rose in cascades, looking from this distance at first like the wind through a plain of grass. The single small motion of their applause, spread so throughout droves of individuals appeared as though a fury; the crowd became, by the flutter of their hands, glittering insect bodies awakened, coming to flight. It was as if by a breeze, perhaps, but better, one against a spider’s web. As if by the weightless steps of a slender foot upon silk, or water. It was as though there was a spider, which, never caught by its own web, knew no other home, no other joy, than the pattern and its prey. It was terrible, beautiful, unspeakable and unthinkable.

Narvin had never heard another thing comparable to it. He resisted momentarily the breathlessness which had been building up behind his sternum, because for him fascination had always been a dry thing, amazement had been quiet and usually unhappy, and now was not the time to be impressed. He frowned in his consideration. And then he exited, collecting his weapon as he went. Through the halls, away from the marble of the pillars and the polished floors and the sound which resounded and remained. The brisk tapping of his footsteps rang, catching between the walls to be kept there as all sound rightfully belonged.

\--

Narvin wrote up the venture where it was relevant and notable, and returned it to Vansell in a prompt and timely fashion. He attempted briefly to busy himself with the on-planet affairs concerning the Academy, but the good Coordinator had assured him that he needed no more hands. Any further personnel on the ground was bound to make the situation crowded. You understand, of course. Go along, Commander, I trust you do get done whatever is most pressing, besides.

Yes indeed, Coordinator. Thank you. Take leave, exiting (briskly) stage left.

Fuming now for the past two spans, Narvin had checked his work, down to the very schematics of the place. He went on to read, where he had permission, into Birragni’s movement over the past several weeks, and found a veritable plethora of nothing: no remarkable transactions, no suspicious behavior, nothing which might be in the least way incriminating – and the occupation of his time settled his prickling nerves. The menial work – research not strictly necessary for anyone who worked less cleanly than Narvin did – done as it was, left him to contemplate instead the movements of the Lady President.

The fact of the matter was that there was still a great question unanswered.

Why, Madam President, oh why _there_?

His instincts – or intuition, or whatever it was that he had trained himself to have – still screamed that he had not yet done everything that he could. And Narvin, never one for negligence, listened, and made his next step.

\--

The Lord High President may have been the singular individual with esteemed privilege regarding Matrix access and the codes thereof, but that in no way meant that those same codes could not be known to some of less esteem, but equal – if not greater – decisive action. Narvin was many things: he may not have been a politician, and he may not have occupied the highest offices, or even been held in the highest of regards, but he was CIA, and more importantly, he was a man for action.

He entered the codes. He checked to make sure the coast was clear. When all was certain, he walked through the Matrix doorway.

What he intended was a simple investigation of the Lady President’s recent ventures, to know the intricacies of the situation should – Rassilon forbid – something else come up which would inevitably require certain, not-necessarily-common knowledge to properly comprehend. Narvin had seen too many missions go astray because of weak intelligence and not enough research, and seen enough mistakes to not be one of them.

He entered to find a series of specific events recorded via the Matrix’s retention of collective memory; what he found instead was something more of a portal, or a hall, firm standing established as a neural pathway used time and time again. He hesitated before, so to speak, stepping through.

The Matrix gave him no surroundings, nothing, then, except the projection of a single figure, dressed formally but without regality, chin held high and a smirk upon the lips – his lips – and a face that Narvin knew, that made his natural suspicions spike with a sense of self-gratification. Job well done. Solutions must first always lead to more impossible mysteries. He sneered incredulously.

“Braxiatel,” he asked without question.

“Narvin,” he replied. “What a surprise to see you, here.”

Narvin, having no patience for the man, least of all now that he was deceased and convicted and very much only a projection, had exactly one question, now, to come before any others. He snapped, “Surprise to see you, more like. What in Rassilon’s name—”

“Could the Madam President want, speaking to a convicted criminal such as myself? That is incredibly simple, Commander: I was her tutor at the Academy. Should Romana seek knowledge from the Matrix, she would only naturally seek out the figure she associates with wisdom and guidance.” There was a pause, then, before a smile dawned on those features, as it years ago would have, “That is, of course, what you wanted to know?”

Taking a moment to battle down the frustration of everyone today – even Matrix projections – interrupting him, Narvin then reminded himself that the Matrix and the apparitions thereof were composed of the memories of Time Lords, dead _and_ living. It could only stand to reason that this one would know his questions as he asked them. No need to complain about promptitude and convenience.

Besides, from what he did remember of all those centuries ago, it would be so very like Braxiatel to tread on every last nerve that Narvin owned.

“Her tutor.”

“Indeed.”

“That certainly explains a lot about her policies.”

“Ah! You don’t approve.”

“But you knew that, already, didn’t you?”

“From the moment you came in. I am dead, after all, Narvin, all I have left is here in the Matrix, and you _are_ building this space as much as I am. My memories merely lend some… personality, shall we call it? To the conversation.”

Narvin sniffed. “Personality indeed. You sound exactly like yourself.”

“Thank you.”

The projection smiled at Narvin’s frown. They both knew it had not been a compliment.

“Next,” the projection continued, “I suppose, you shall want to know what the Lady President Romana has been up to, lately. Particularly the recent affair, concerning the Fveri Concert Hall?”

“You must love the Matrix,” Narvin drawled, “It suits you so well, knowing everything, doesn’t it?”

In a gesture which might have been prudence as well as typical arrogance – it was and always had been difficult to tell – Braxiatel ignored the commentary to answer his own – Narvin’s – question.

“It cannot have passed your attention that frankly impressive security measures have been implemented on the asteroid. It might also not have entirely escaped you that any person of any species, planet or appearance might be permitted to peaceably attend those performances. Peaceably, Narvin, that _is_ the key word.”

A pause went between them. Then, flat with dark apprehension, Narvin deadpanned, “What are you getting at, Braxiatel.”

“For a president whose efforts are currently indulged in the opening of Gallifreyan Academies to off-world students hailing from the other Temporal Powers, it can only be prudent to meet with their leaders in an environment of guaranteed safety and civility, don’t you think?”

For perhaps a nanospan, Narvin found himself lost for words. Then, his jaw tightened and his lips pulled down and away until the slightest slip of his teeth could show through.

“Are you insinuating that the Lady President of Gallifrey would – organize off-world political conferences without the inclusion or the even the knowledge of the High Council?”

“Except you aren’t actually asking that,” Braxiatel said, “because you do not like Romana or her policies. Are you incredulous that she would go so far, or impressed at her cleverness?”

“Subterfuge is not clever.”

“Au contraire – you, being CIA, ought to at least know that.”

“And you, forging identities around the galaxies, breaking the laws of time, keeping communication with past and future selves and hoarding away the fruit of your exploits at some little nowhere planetoid you’d named for yourself, and for what? To burn up in an explosion in the vaults and with an open door which nearly took half the Matrix with you – you _would_ know about schemes and secrets, wouldn’t you, Braxiatel?”

“More than you could imagine,” he promised.

Narvin smirked. “My, my. The Lady President must have learned something after all, from your instruction.”

“I certainly hope so,” he purred. “She does, after all, still come to me for counsel. And it _was_ I who might have insinuated to her, to seek an audience more private and secure with the leaders of the Temporal Powers, should she wish, of course, to accomplish her ends.”

Nothing of this conversation had chilled Narvin so much as that, and the vague smile which followed, and were the projection alive, were he speaking to more than just a memory, he might even have suspected that Braxiatel had said – would say – precisely what he did for exactly the reaction which tugged at the space below Narvin’s ribs.

They paused together. And then, knowingly, Braxiatel asked. “You had one last question, didn’t you?”

He recoiled with his shoulders alone, straightened up to his full height and set his jaw as he spoke, with slow purpose, “Perhaps some other time.”

“No,” Braxiatel said, amused, “not there,” he murmured. It was not in response to what Narvin had said but an answer, instead, to the question which lingered, unsaid, for them both to know. Danger? the word held fast to the air. Danger?

“I ought to have you partitioned off and disposed of,” Narvin muttered, the threat empty, and he – they both – could do nothing but know it. He turned and walked back out of the door and did not once look back.

\--

She was confronted immediately, and to Narvin’s premature satisfaction, immediately announced the preliminary efforts, on her part, to open more widely the communications with the other temporal powers.

Her policies might have been dangerously liberal, but as of yet, her popularity seemed to be holding out. Perhaps he had too soon hoped that Inquisitor Darkel would not have forgotten her favor to the President, to step outside the capitol and bring within its walls the savage woman Leela, the favor which must have seemed so degrading to a moderate politician like herself. She could have called an Inquiry – anyone could have – no one did. Perhaps he thought others on the High Council might still have been questioning the soundness of her decisions after the Gryben incident. Perhaps. Or perhaps following the aversion of the disaster and the return to standard diplomacy, they no longer had anything to question. Perhaps. Perhaps.

The High Council of Gallifrey granted its cautionary approval of her actions, and lent its wary support.

Narvin watched and the muscles in his face did not twitch. Not once.


	3. seconda

“Madam President, I must insist. For all my faith in the Chancellery Guard, I cannot see of what use they could possibly be, particularly with their weapons disabled.”

“That is exactly the point, Coordinator. I do _not_ want any weapons, any combat training, _anything_ more or less than my continued visits, with which I hope to ensure the stable relations of the Temporal Powers.”

“But surely if you would just—”

“It is out of the question, Coordinator.”

“—but if you would just let me finish, I had hoped we could come to a compromise which would please all parties involved.”

“Oh, by all means, Vansell, if you think you can please me with your proposition. You have one microspan.”

“One of my men has recently been sent to ensure the security of the location, on your behalf, Madam President. He has been made familiar with the floorplan and the security offered, and as a member of the CIA, need not enter as a combatant, but as a diplomat.”

“Spy. I think that was the word you were looking for, Coordinator.”

“Madam, surely, if your hope is to expose Gallifrey to outside influence, it can only help the image that you want to create of a more open, more tolerant Gallifrey, if someone were to escort you off-world. You would not be a sole figurehead but symbolically bringing others into wider spheres of diplomacy.”

“And how, precisely, would this please the CIA?”

“By further ensuring your safety, of course, Madam President.”

A pause came and went.

“Well. If it is my safety that you’re worried about. Very well, Vansell, I will concede. For the time being.”

“I am unspeakably pleased to have come to an agreement, Lady President. Commander Narvin will be escorting you there.”

\--

If there was a greater inconvenience than taking a day trip out to the asteroid, then this might well have been it. He had begrudgingly forgone his CIA robes for ones which indicated something more of diplomacy and politics – the first of which was necessary and practical, the latter of which he understood the importance of but had no patience for when it came to the pomp of it – and came all the way to the ground in such a way that he remembered precisely how much he took for granted the ease and liberation of movement that more practical dress would lend him.

Nor was the Lady President particularly charmed with his company. Neither, for that matter, was he with hers. The last time they had traveled together it had been, he suspected, an attempt to punish him, a petty sort of movement as though she were placing a child in a corner to think about what he had done. He had not been charmed the first time, and he was hardly impressed, now. Less so when she had insisted that he should act congenially and try not to look as though he was soured by every little sight, and spectacularly less again when, upon landing, an attempt to humor her wishes with an amiable offering of his arm was greeted with her hand finding his covered wrist and pushing it forcibly down as she demanded he also not embarrass himself.  

He had no weapons to deposit. They were ushered without delay into the foyer immediately adjacent to the auditorium – one on the first level, this time, which he was assured were less modest than the one he had attended previously, briefly. It was there that they were greeted by four representatives of the Monan Host, two of whom addressed them directly and all of whom seemed to have the Gryben incident fresh in their memories. All things considered, they exemplified a level of civility practically unheard of for the species, in such circumstances as had not so distantly passed.

The first of the two, a female if he were to hazard a guess, spoke first.

“President,” she said, terse but intent. Romana bowed her head in turn so that their gaze was broken for only a moment. “I am Garel. I will speak for you and your proposition in the coming assemblies.”

“And I,” said the other, “am V’rech.”

“V’rech has the task,” Garel explained, “of seeing that all of today’s affairs go smoothly.”

A job not entirely unlike his own, he noted. The other two remained unnamed. Likely dual-purposed lackeys, Narvin decided, who would be doubling as guards in case of disaster and witnesses when credibility would be called in.

Romana nodded. “Of course. Well – you know me, already. And _this_ is Commander Narvin of the CIA—” Narvin watched without any betrayal of his own expression as the second of the representatives lent him a rather sudden, cautionary glance, “—who will be verifying once more that all is quite well in such a greeting as ours.”

“How ironic,” Garel observed. “I should think, given the recent fiasco with Gallifrey’s own protectorate, we would be the ones within our rights to be so suspicious.”

With a calculated note of humor, she replied, “Believe me, Representative Garel – it would not be the CIA if they did not take every precaution. Rest assured that, at this point, I am nearly certain they are more suspicious of _me_.”

Congenial and appropriately humored responses were exchanged. Romana chuckled and Garel lifted her chin in a gesture, Narvin gathered, was something akin to a polite and brief smile. He realized that things were already going well, and he did not so much wonder as realize that there _would_ be the question of how much longer it would last.

For his part, Narvin found that the early microspans of the venture passed mainly with smiles and nods and appropriate instances of “Ah, yes,” and “Is that so,” and “How interesting,” when questions were asked or details were posed to him. In the meantime, the Lady President wooed the representatives and spoke glowingly of her hopes for peace between the powers, and the steps being taken to ensure everyone’s comfort and safety, and how greatly she appreciated their prospective and generous consideration of the soon-to-be-open Academy of Gallifrey.

Narvin smiled and bit his tongue and earned himself, he thought, the job description of diplomat.

And when the time came at last, when they all were made to enter and sit and come down into dark and silence, he could not have been more relieved. He stayed that way, unseen in quiet and relief for approximately ten miscrospans before the lights came up before him and the hush became one of held breath anticipatory reverence rather than one of allowance.

Perhaps it meant nothing at all, but Narvin duly noted that he did not recognize the performer, a soprano whose tonal quality had the essence of clear, still water. Remarkable perhaps, but so much of the universe supposedly was.

The crowds rose in droves, united, to give their standing ovation. The party of Monan and Time Lord alike remained seated at the back, clapping, while his own applause arrived just out of time so that he could hear separately his own hands coming together and apart. To his right, he heard briefly a comment which Garel passed to the President, regarding the performance. The murmurs of the representatives settled amicably underneath the hum of applause which rose and leveled and at last faded with the rising lights.

Romana and Garel were speaking almost amiably, by now. When the time came to leave he stood with measured patience and waited until Romana and Garel, flanked by V’rech and himself, all filtered out the opened doors and into the reception hall.

“A little unusual, certainly. But perhaps the Monan standards of beauty are quite different from those of Gallifrey.”

“Perhaps if someone could point to a single Time Lord who would _have_ a standard of beauty by which to praise such things as this performance,” V’rech suggested.

“I would be most anxious to meet them,” Romana tensely agreed, more out of a sense of precarious diplomacy than out of accordance. “Perhaps then we could draw a decent comparison.”

“Perhaps we Monans could lend you some sense of aesthetic.”

“Perhaps so. It remains to be seen, but it is my hope in opening this Academy that such things would not be so unthinkable as to jest of them, as you and I do, Representative Garel.”

The crowd had dispersed and left enough room between bodies that Narvin found himself more at ease, for what he could see. The auditorium had not been at full capacity. He guessed there were a total of one hundred and ten attendees, including themselves, which was no trifle and yet left him a comfortable margin to watch. He was, after all, escorting the Madam President. It would hardly do to have her assassinated on-premises because he put his trust – Rassilon forbid – in resources outside of his own capacity.

He began to think that they would be leaving soon. His posture was near the point of relative relaxation, until he saw from the corner of his eye and past a currently respectable and undeniably diminishing distance the tall lithe figure approaching. And he knew the shape, knew the man down to the dip of his head and the tone of his voice which he could still hear echoing against the walls. He would have sworn that he could even detect its presence under the hum of the crowd which surrounded them. There had been another singer – this one should have had no reason to be present. As Romana laughed and allowed Garel a moment to speak with the other Monans, he reached out, and the touch alone to her arm should have been enough of a shock to still her.

It did. He said, “Madam President.”

“Oh, diplomacy,” she murmured only half-earnest disinterest. She turned to look at Narvin once before she inclined her head back to their company. “We might be a while longer, Commander. I trust you to make yourself comfortable.”

Narvin looked up and once more saw the face which was the only other in the whole room he recognized, the face which wore again that vague smile, turned in such a way that as Romana positioned herself to speak (not to him), he could not tell if it was meant for her or for himself.

And he did not know the moment when it happened, but his instincts, the ones he had developed and cultivated and dragged out of the stale ground of rationale which constituted the slow-thinking and the Time Lord – these spoke, and he moved. He walked, measured and careful and quick until his strides were long and his eyes intent and now the smile was definitely turned his way, now the singer was definitely smiling at him, and he opened himself so that he faced forward toward Narvin, opening up to him, like a door opening, like a wall coming up.

“Commander,” the singer sighed, “How good to see you again.”

Flatly, Narvin replied, “It was not your performance, I noticed.”

If mischief and self-satisfaction were to combine the worst of each, the product would still not have done justice to the expression which currently rested on the singer’s lips. “I hope you’re not disappointed,” he teased.

“Hardly.”

“You were very fortunate, really. Oh! The lady Mula has a voice like fine crystal. Not to mention that I understand it was quite the task to arrange for her to come, what with her being from something of an antique period—”

“What,” he snapped, “are you doing here, Birragni?”

A cluttered pause went between them. It occurred to Narvin suddenly that the two of them were speaking with a normal if not lowered volume, and he could hear the man perfectly even so. The singer smiled.

“I overheard that we had quite the notable guests, today. It seems my curiosity was too much for me. I can hardly resist a little intrigue. And right I was!”

Another step forward pushed the distance. They were at a spacing which on Gallifrey would have practically equated an encounter of the highly lewd variety. Only by the eye contact which did not waver did Narvin find himself standing his ground, fighting the imbedded – but not instinctual – urge of his knee to buckle and replace the air. Birragni leaned forward with his eyes ever-focused – they were green – and he watched Narvin with an earnest intent, one which he found as unsettling as it was familiar.

“Tell me,” he said, nearly whispering, “for I never did see you, afterwards, and never had the chance to ask after that cluttered head of yours. Tell me. Did you listen, Narvin?”

Mad, Narvin decided. The man was absolutely mad. Not unusual for self-proclaimed artists, and least of all those with an obsession enough to learn a voice like that, but between the proximity which was familiar even by non-Gallifreyan standards and the unwavering focus of his eyes and worst of all the name, the name without the honorary which he could not fathom. He stared with equal unwavering determination before Birragni first broke the look – to reply, instead, to the entrance of a voice.

“Signore Birragni,” said the Lady President of Gallifrey.

“Romana,” he sighed, luxuriating in the syllables. Narvin did not make it easy by standing aside. The singer had to open himself once more to the president, stepping around as he did so that his posture opened and Narvin felt he once more had the space to breathe.

“Signore Birragni,” she said, “So good to see you once again. I am so sorry it could not be your own work we saw today.”

“Variety is the spice of life, dear lady.”

“Indeed. Might I introduce Representative Garel and her escort, V’rech, of the Monan Host?”

“Representatives. I am charmed, rest assured. It is so rare we have the pleasure of entertaining those members of the Temporal Powers – and how ironic, seeing as that they could conceivably make it to any performance they wished! I wish you a warm welcome to Hfvaral VI, and our own Fveri Concert Hall.”

“Mister Birragni. And you are—?”

“Just another humble singer, Representative Garel. I had the most fortunate opportunity to meet the Lady President Romana when we were both caught in traffic, as it were. Even then, she was speaking of a day like this – meeting with other powers, such as yourself, peacefully. What better place to do so than here, no? What wonderful outcomes you might achieve!”

“Indeed,” said Garel, as she turned then again to the remaining three representatives.

Birragni watched warmly after them while Romana turned her attention to the Monans. Narvin divided his attention until Birragni turned back to face him, and smiled.

“Well, Commander?” he said, the easy tone standing contrast to the still-fresh memory which waded under his skin like the lingering of a nightmare, “ _Did_ you listen?”

“No,” Narvin said.

The singer smiled. “ _Liar_ ,” he accused, or teased – he made it impossible to tell which it should have truly been. And then he laughed, because he could not have known if Narvin had or not. Narvin continued to watch, however, and as the time passed, he watched it all. His attention stayed ever, carefully divided.

\--

The reprieve was briefer than he might have otherwise enjoyed. It seemed to him that he had barely returned home and managed to make a suitable report on the venture than Coordinator Vansell hailed him and announced that he would be escorting the Lady President for a follow-up conference, same location as before, including a Phaidon party along with the Monans from before.

It seemed to him, despite all of the sayings, that the wicked would be getting a great deal more rest than he would these days.

\--

“Commander. I did not summon you. Is there a problem?”

“I am not sure, yet.”

“Well then. Out with it, lest the Lady President catches you dallying halfway across the Capitol from where you _ought_ to be headed.”

“Coordinator. It is… one thing, to return to the same place time and time again. _That_ only shows something of preference. And I will not deny that it seems to have produced the best results that our President could have hoped for, given the circumstances, I can see why she would favor the location.”

“But?”

“I find it _far_ too coincidental that the returns happened to be simultaneous with the performances, up until now.”

“Still worrying about the President and her tastes, Narvin?”

“Only where there appeared to be – as you called it, Coordinator – a funny coincidence.”

A pause went between them as Vansell considered this.

“And anything out of the ordinary, besides?”

“Despite the fact that it was not his performance, Birragni did make an appearance. Specifically, as far as I can tell, to speak with the Lady President. He was very—” Narvin frowned “familiar.”

“And anything, besides?”

“Nothing, apart from that, Coordinator.”

Vansell sighed, shaking his head with a look that Narvin knew well. His lips tightened even before the Coordinator opened his mouth to speak.

“Well, Narvin, I wouldn’t dream of insulting your intelligence, but do remember that we’ve more important affairs to be tending to, on-planet. Your task is merely to see that our Lady President is not jeopardizing her own or anyone else’s safety. And the last time you went looking, you didn’t exactly pull up swathes of information about the singer.”

“I just think the Madam President is up to something.”

“Ha! Indeed. And isn’t she always.”

Vansell glanced behind Narvin. Whether it was out of distraction or impatience, Narvin could not tell from the brevity of it.

“You had best get a move on, Commander,” he said. “The Lady President will be expecting you.”

“Coordinator.”

He took his leave.

\--

This time, even V’rech spoke with monitored openness to the Madam President, and from Representative Garel she received a greeting that borderlined genuine warmth. The remaining two Monans from the last rendezvous had, apparently, been forgone. As if to take their place were two Phaidon representatives, Melenes and Caramea, who seemed rightly wary of the whole situation, and relieved as the microspans ticked on and no untoward words and no political tensions yet manifested.

They went to the balconies, for the performance. Once more he did not know the performer and for the second time he clapped, noticing with only a dull observational eye that his applause once more reached his ears with something almost like separation.

The pleasantries following, unlike the last encounter, were brief. By now, Narvin imagined, the mere gesture was proving enough for certain parties. The Warpsmiths might even have been encouraged by the Monans’ apparent comfort during the gathering.

Romana’s plans, he thought sourly, must be going just as she hoped, after all.

By the time that all but himself and his President had departed, he suspected they were to leave. He was surprised when she gave him a tired, almost withering look and told him, “Best you go along and wait for me, I think.

“I am here to escort you,” he said.

“Nonsense,” she said “you are here to make sure I am safe and, as I think you know, I am quite so. And let us be frank – I think you like me even _less_ than your Coordinator does, don’t you? Don’t make a fuss, Commander. I have no intentions of dragging this out.”

And then Narvin was standing alone, furious and still, while Romana turned her back. She set her pace not the way of the TARDIS or the exits, not at all, but instead to where another figure stood by the east walls, nearest to the restricted backstage areas. Narvin watched her walk until she was caught in the nook of the wide, curved walls, and then he watched them stand, and he watched them know one another. Of course they knew each other. It came as no surprise, not when he knew it already, from their demeanor not four days past, in relative time. Besides which, he remembered the talk from Birragni. Checkpoint security and enough conversation, besides, that the singer had known as well about the Academy’s opening doors – they would have known each other.

Whether or not that warranted the subtle touch the singer made with his fingertips to the President’s nearest arm, he did not yet know. He noted it for only an instant before turning his attention back to the President and the singer, who stood there all that distance away, until his outrage found a precarious balance with his sense, and he began to approach.

He had watched. Now, the tolerant reassurance had evaporated. He was suspicious and he trusted no one.

The singer was already smiling at him, turning to face him and Romana echoed the motion if not the expression, so that together they were like a set of great doors swinging gradually grandly open before him. He kept his glaring gaze on them long before he at last had to stop, abruptly, before he would come close enough to prove the indignity he felt.

“Narvin, I said I would not be long,” she warned.

“Madam President,” he said, “If you will pardon my saying so, need we really carry this on? I see no representatives and nothing of diplomacy in this little niche you’ve found.”

“Which demonstrates quite astutely how much you know of politics, Commander. Need I point out that diplomacy is rather far from your job description, and no one expects you to recognize what it would look like.”

“Madam President—”

“Gallifrey must be a very small world, indeed,” the singer said, “that I so often have the pleasure of seeing you together, these recent days. And how wonderful for you, Lady President, that you can know with such familiarity the man who represents your interests and safety. Commander Narvin,” he nodded his greeting.

Bite your tongue, Narvin nearly snapped, he considered saying for half of an instant before his own tongue, knowing better, curled in his mouth to stop the words tumbling forward. “Indeed,” he said instead. “Tell me – and perhaps you can answer as well as our dear Lady President. Is this diplomacy, Birragni?”

The singer smiled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Narvin,” Romana said dangerously.

“I only meant,” Narvin said, “that our dearest Madam President appears to be insinuating that what is going on here resembles the politics of diplomacy. Naturally, I have to wonder – is it diplomacy, Birragni?”

“Goodness gracious,” the singer said, laughing, “I do hope not.”

“As do I,” Narvin agreed. And then he turned to Romana, lowering his head respectfully while he kept his eyes intently, piercingly on her. “I must insist – if we are done here, Madam President, then I cannot help but feel it would be best to return to Gallifrey as soon as possible.”

“I never said we were done here, Commander.”

“By all means, my lady—” Narvin gestured. “I fear our Monan friends have left, and the Phaidon representatives before them. Is there yet another party that we are here to meet?”

Romana opened her lips, but Birragni shifted first, smiling, and said “Forgive me, Commander. I invited the Lady President for tea and a chat, which I suppose makes me the encroaching other party you mention. I was just about to receive her reply when I saw you – but if you are truly so busy, Madam President, then I shall have to accept relinquishing your company, this once.”

“If I am,” she said, with unequivocal firmness this time, “Which, believe me, I would know if I was. I make a point to know my own schedules and stick to them. Of course, it wouldn’t be _reasonable_ to expect that Commander Narvin would have such insight into my affairs.” For a moment it seemed as though she would put up more of a fight, but then, almost suddenly, her ribs fell into a huff of breath and she shot a glare between the two of them. “I’ll have to beg that you pardon any confusion. If your offer still stands—”

“No pardon necessary, my Lady,” the singer said, “I understand completely. And I would not dream of retracting it.”

“Then I should very much like to stay for tea.”

“Madam President,” Narvin said.

“My Lady,” Birragni murmured to her, before turning his eyes then to Narvin and nodding again in turn. “As always – it is good to see you both. I hope it will not be foolish of me, to hope that the wait between our next encounters shall be short.”

“Yes,” Narvin said. “Well.”

“ _A presto_ , Commander. I promise you, I shall return her safe and sound.”

“I will meet you in the TARDIS, Narvin.”

And what could he do, of course, except exactly as he was commanded. He went back to the ship and waited, silent and furious still, until nearly a span later Romana at last returned with her back held in a forward-going, dynamically straight posture.

“Diplomacy,” she sighed, voice weighty and sharp. To trifle with a tone like that was to flirt one’s way into premature resignation. “Very well. Shall we go home then, Commander?”

Of course, Madam President. Flick switch. Exit Concert Hall.

\--

But any battle’s victory or loss did not signify anything to be excited over, least of all in the long run. Narvin knew politics well enough to know that there was never a mere battle of wits without a deeper war of righteous ideology underneath. Things were beginning to move on Gallifrey. Romana had her foot in the door and had set her political crowbars well. Soon the gates might come flying open under her push.

“Madam President,” Vansell had asked when the news – perhaps pointedly, without delay – reached him, “I understand the urgency of the situation, and the pressing need to make peace with the other temporal powers. But I have to wonder if this is all moving too quickly.”

“Do you not think that your agents cannot handle the security of an additional hundred or so students, Coordinator?”

“Alien students, my Lady, with all due respect – and the threat of the Free Time movement has not entirely abated. I simply cannot see the benefit to moving so quickly.”

“Might _I_ ask, Coordinator Vansell,” the Inquisitor interrupted at some distance from the President’s right, “Do you occupy a notable position on the High Council of Gallifrey, of which neither I nor your president was aware? Should the recent vote not have passed, due to the concerns which you made clear to the High Council at the very proposition of the Academy’s opening, nearly one _year_ ago?”

Silence penetrated the air. Narvin stood at the back of the room, listening, watching again the postures – the Coordinator with Narvin standing to his back, perhaps two arms distance away, the Inquisitor, across the room and allied by her facing which was the same as the Lady President’s, though the distance was again greater between them. Once more, he saw her as she always had been and what all had expected to see – the woman who stood alone as President of Gallifrey.

“An intriguing question, Inquisitor,” Romana said, slowly, with her head tilted just that way as if she were curious, perhaps not for an answer to a question but for the answer one would struggle to give in reply. “Vansell?”

“No, my Lady,” Vansell said at last, bowing. “I will update you when I can, regarding our progress.”

“Thank you, Coordinator.”

Vansell nodded and turned, and Narvin waited some steps behind him. Until the moment when he turned his back, he watched the woman who stood alone. Oh, was she clever. Never hold anyone too close. The fastest way to be unseen is to be simultaneously unknown. It was an instinct Narvin had cultivated in ages past, and he saw it, now. He nearly admired it.

\--

There was one span unaccounted for, now. One span which had made itself unseen and now, Narvin could not let it go.

He went to write his report and he could not, not with time unaccounted for, not when more questions had come up than he had answered. After nearly a span at his desk with his pen poised, tense, at the point of trembling, he could take no more. At last he put it down. His eyes slipped closed. When he opened them, again, he made a call.

“Commander Narvin of the Celestial Intervention Agency. I am checking out for the time being to investigate a matter regarding the Fveri Concert Hall. I shall be taking a TARDIS with an estimated time of return for four bells, relative time.”

Within ten microspans the desk had been abandoned once more, and the pen still where it had been laid down so pointedly.

\--

He was reminded, once more, of the purpose. Standing at the back as he did, he could hardly see, but Rassilon forbid if he could not hear. Over and over, he realized, that was precisely the point.

Faces did not survive, here. Voices did.

The designers had not been satisfied until a whisper made at the center stage could be heard clearly in the boxes as though the performer had spoken most intimately to them, alone. Because the curtain opened and it was a different song, this time, by the same slender figure upon the stage, quiet but with inflections and tones and even the moments of the artist’s own breathing kept no secret from the ready listeners. Narvin frowned, and some of the notes were nearly hummed soft and careful and recognizably earnest until despite all of his better judgment the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end and that feeling ballooned up behind his sternum. The man had a habit of leaning his head back when he belted, of spreading his hands and smiling through faster-paced mellifluous notes. Narvin had to not move, he could not bring himself to breathe more than to clench his fingers together hidden by the arm of his robe. This time, he stayed through the whole of the performance, a total of forty microspans and at least six – he was told – different pieces sung, though if truth had to be told then he would tell it that one seemed to him to have flowed into the next, with only scattered applause to mark the difference and that was how he knew because otherwise he was only listening, present and dragged to the spot listening. He clapped along with the droves, slow and out of time. One. Onetwothree two fourfivesixseven three.  

\--

Narvin stormed in with the most notable lack of social grace, no announcement or civility or request for permission about him. He broke into the air like a thunder crash or a burglar, demanding fast cold sharp into the stretch between them, “Just what is your game, Birragni?”

The singer sat unperturbed far across with at first twelve reflections which when he stood, each mirror image standing with him, and in them he could see the eyes downcast; and when the singer turned all but one of the thirteen had their backs turned, and they were all walking away, all but one who came toward him with his green eyes looking, that gaze meeting Narvin’s and his reflections left him like defenses dropping away until he was so close he could not fill the space. Even an arm’s length away Narvin had to steel himself not to flinch or growl at the voice which rung so easily and so crystal fine.

“I don’t have the faintest what you are on about, Coordinator.”

Narvin drew his weapon from its holster and held it steadily, squarely. Birragni hardly blinked even though the metal surface hovered a scant six centimeters before his chest – though he did for a moment appear undeniably disappointed.

“Tell me,” Narvin said, “if you know. Is my staser deactivated, in here?”

“Yes.”

“But I could stun you just as well if I hit you over the head with it, don’t you think?”

He only smiled in reply.

“I shall make this brief,” Narvin continued, “Birragni, I could knock you down cold, put you under custody of the CIA, and drag you halfway across the galaxy, and you would be playing by my rules. I could find a thousand little ways to make you tell us every minute detail of what we need to know, and I can guarantee you that only for the first fifty or so will you manage keep that smirk on your face.”

Birragni nodded, keeping his eyes downcast for but a moment, before – and still, ever-smiling – he spoke, “Unless I cooperate, yes? I did sign and say that I would. I should like to keep my promise to you, Narvin; I would not make one lightly.”

He smiled that gentle, serene smile that Narvin had started to know far too easily, the one that he had started to be able to predict when it might arrive softly on his features, and which he could nearly predict when it would turn into a chuckle or a smirk. It seemed to him, in fact, that Birragni might have been just as solid as that, a whim, and might as easily have become little more than another eternal and intangible echo among these whispering walls.

It made the singer transparent, utterly, as though he had nothing to hide. The very notion was beyond infuriating

But then why that unspoken-for hour?

“You had a span,” Narvin went on, with practiced patience which would not last either of them terribly much longer. He flipped his staser in his hand and replaced it in its holster, keeping his hand knowingly where it sat. “One single span with the Lady President. And I frankly don’t believe you’re any more a diplomat than I am, Birragni, so let me ask you one more time: what is your game? What _ever_ are you playing at?”

The singer blinked. And then, almost seriously, he inquired, “You really want to know, Narvin?”

“Would I like to give an accurate write-up of what happened today, cease meddling around in all the scandals and mystery of politics, most of all when it might jeopardize the safety of my planet—”

“Oh, I promise it’s nothing severe as all _that_ , on my word, on the very signature I gave—”

“— _yes_ ,” Narvin finished, volume high, through at last with the unfinished sentences and waiting words on his tongue’s tip, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I really _do_ think I should like to know.”

A grave silence lingered and carried, filling the space where their voices had just raised, together. And then Birragni nodded, slowly, and let his eyes fall thoughtfully to the floor.

“What Romana and I discussed…?”

“Or plotted, or connived. Yes.” Narvin said.

Birragni looked up.

“Well,” he said.

He stepped forward and Narvin began to wonder if this was a threat. He wondered, but the fact was that man was transparent -- it must have been years since he had to face someone whose face corresponded so well to his posture and to the very way his eyes looked at things, at people, at--

“It is quite simple, actually”

Narvin stood his ground his hand was still on his staser

“you see”

The singer had come into that would-be scandalous proximity only this time he did not seem to be intent upon stopping

“we just…”

Narvin realized one moment too late that the singer was smiling, that it was not a threat but a tease, and nothing more, nothing but a frivolity and perhaps a secret. He did not realize until the singer was silenced and the silence filled the room, because neither one of them thought to move their lips, not so soon, not when they had only first pressed and not when the singer had only just managed to still them both and the very air with the kiss.

It ended as suddenly as Narvin realized it had begun and then Birragni was smiling at him, for a moment, until a sudden thought pulled across his brows and shaded his eyes. It softened and dulled the smile, but did not banish it yet.

“And it was as simple as that, I am afraid,” he said. Apologized, perhaps. “Perhaps I simply ought to have _said_ I did as much, and save the demonstration for another time – sometimes I forget how you Time Lords can be. Commander Narvin?”

“Yes,” Narvin said, and nothing more. His lips were closed and his eyes calm, sculpted that way, because more than the shock from the exchange he focused on the turning of his head which suspected still, that there was something more to all of the subterfuge. And the uncanny sensation settled in his bones that he had just opened a back window through which to hear the clandestine whispers.

He left the same way he came, without announcement or request for permission.

\--

Upon his return, he explained the unmarked span of time as “idle conversation”, and nothing more.


	4. terza

Within two days relative time following the President’s rendezvous on Hfvaral VI, the Monan Host gave their official consent to permit an as-of-yet undetermined number of students into the Academy on Gallifrey. Guaranteed cooperation and participation until something notably changed.

The Warpsmiths of Phaidon suggested, in recent communications, that their decision would follow soon, and would likely end in the same affirmative response.

\--

It was a last-ditch effort, one that he took no pride in assuming, but Narvin never admired a man who would as soon throw himself headlong into anything without being rather sure of himself. He was a man – first and foremost – of _informed_ action.

He entered the doorway and stood his ground.

“Do you know what it is that the President Romana wants with the singer Vitale Birragni?”

“In a sense.”

“What?”

“As much as I can know anything." He sighed demonstratively. "Dear me, look at that! I seem to be dead, and a criminal no less; no funeral to me, no, no body to find in an explosion like that; now, a mere composite of memories responding under set parameters; and given an array of responses a living body once used under certain circumstances, now simulating which sorts of behavior I would exemplify, as if I could indeed _truly_ learn or know anything at all, anymore—”

It was an impressive display of just how much of a person was comprised of their past experiences, that even now, even dead and tucked away into the systems of the Matrix, Braxiatel could still manage to be every inch the self-important, loquacious twat he had been.

“Do you know, or don’t you?” Narvin demanded.

Braxiatel paused.

“Yes.”

“And?”

He sighed. “You won’t like the answer, Narvin.”

Narvin did not wait for it.

\--

Because the more he thought of it, the more horrible it seemed. How convenient had it been, to have an outsider praise the Lady President so highly before the Monans. Who better than the mere singer, as he had called himself? Who better an ally could she have found, except a neutral player from the neutral place, where war was unheard of and the nasty underbelly of politics could not dream to enter?

There was no crime in having allies. Even Narvin knew that. Nor were there laws strictly against the lack of professionalism that the kiss had suggested. But there were repercussions. And, perhaps, there was a need to know exactly what sort of affairs were ongoing between the Gallifreyan government and these outside influences.

He was not yet convinced that Birragni had as little sway as he insinuated.

\--

Narvin was, after all, a man of well-informed action, and if action got him informed, well, all the better.

It was in this way that he returned once more to the Fveri Concert Hall, of the asteroid Hfvaral VI, with his mission in mind. A third time gone through and by now the path was nearly familiar, the scanning and the prints, and the long dark hall which led to the white and the frescos, to the mirrors and the man.

“So,” Narvin said.

Birragni stood, and this time, he kept the room of distance between them, to speak. “Commander,” he said. “Having the unexpected surprise of seeing you in my rooms once this week was flattering. Now, I have to wonder if there isn’t something terribly important that I ought to know?”

“Whether or not it is important has yet to be seen,” Narvin assured him, “and whether you ought to know it is _extremely_ dubious, to say the least.”

“A man must be allowed his secrets, no?”

“Funny, that I should want to ask you the same thing.”

“By all means, Commander Narvin. If you’d like, I could even answer your questions with less practical demonstration, this time.”

Narvin said nothing, and Birragni did not move. The silence carried and lifted, thinning until it became fragile with all the implications it held, until at last it could not help but break and waft away like a spider’s thread.

“I hope,” Birragni said, “I did not offend you. You left so suddenly.”

“I had work to do.”

“Ah, of course. How silly of me. I suppose I should have been wondering if you ever managed anything at all, besides.”

Narvin smirked. “Apparently,” he drawled, “I can listen.”

He expected the silence that followed, and if he had been closer, he might have been able to distinguish the intricacies of the battle which raged behind the singer’s eyes and in the parting, then closing of his lips, between consideration and curiosity, and that ever-persistent tendency towards a smile. Narvin waited and it was Birragni at last who made the first step, who tucked his hands formally behind his back and closed the room of distance between them. Narvin did not flinch, and Birragni came close enough that, had he reached forward with a straight arm and flexed his hand, he could have cradled the back of Narvin’s skull in his palm.

“Just what,” Narvin said at last, “do you and my President get up to, behind closed doors, hm?”

“Should I say?” Birragni nearly laughed. “The last time, you stormed out of my rooms. I am not sure I should go on, if you are so faint of heart…” His eyes lidded with easy, teasing charm. “And if you are after another kiss, I am afraid you will have to be just a bit more clear.”

Narvin laughed dryly. And then he grabbed the singer’s lapel and pulled him into another, longer kiss, one which he orchestrated, one which practiced the rise and flow of a clumsy start – purposefully, clumsy – and the slow adjustment into comfort, and then the almost-quickly building vigor.

He parted it when he was certain someone with less lung capacity than an operatic singer would have been breathless, and when he was certain that Birragni would have felt exactly that same lasting lack which only a moment’s panting could retrieve. The singer watched him and Narvin watched back.

“Very well,” Birragni murmured at last. “Would you care to know the rest, then, Commander?”

“You did sign,” Narvin reminded him, his tone nearly sharp. “I think I can say on the behalf of the CIA that we would be most gratified, for you to keep your most _obliging_ cooperation.”

“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing. I really quite like you, Narvin.”

“My thanks.”

\--

Most did not know the extent to which the CIA trained their operatives. Narvin considered himself utterly and completely loyal to Gallifrey, first and foremost. If that entailed giving up some of the engrained modesty that came with being typically Time Lord – well. For one with the training to do so, it was not so much of a fuss as many would expect.

\--

He watched the singer following, let his eyelids relax and slip over the top of his gaze, belying just how very closely he was paying attention, because it was the quiet microspans which afterward ensued that could draw out subtle hints of the truth. Just minutes after sliding bonelessly down the wall – their clothes disheveled and half-removed in the haste – Birragni settled his head in the crook of Narvin’s neck, between his jaw and his shoulder, and his sigh earned a shiver from the brush of breath against his skin.

“I rather fancy this,” Narvin drawled softly, at last. “It seems it is the surest way to shut you up.”

The singer chuckled. “Music, you know,” he murmured, “is the art of combining sound and silence.”

“Trust you, to respond verbally in reply to a compliment for your silence.”

“Because you let me in, to interrupt. You listen. But of course, I could—”

“Don’t,” Narvin said, running his fingers idly through the fine-cut dark hair, “it’s all right.”

“And probably in poor taste, to then _verbally_ _offer_ my silence?”

“Probably,” Narvin allowed. And then, as if had just occurred to him – it hadn’t – he turned his head and said, “I trust your other exploits won’t mind?”

“You? Oh, perhaps, if they met you – that is entirely your fault, for frowning so much. As for _me_ , and you, and this encounter? – I cannot imagine so. Be frank with me, Narvin – you _were_ the one who called it an exploit – do you really suspect that you or anyone else could misunderstand it? Call it arrogance if you must, but the fact of the matter is that everything else is a mere mistress to the life companion which is song.”

“That seems like it would be a good detail to _preface_ these encounters with.”

“Usually, I do. But you seemed so insistent. I suppose all Time Lords must be the same – repressed, or the like. You move like your bodies don’t know how and you are dying to fill up those heads of yours with all knowledge, even sex, though your skin protests it. I think it is part of why I love Time Lords. No – don’t look at me like that. Really, I do.”

“Truly. You like to scandalize us?”

“I suppose that isn’t entirely far from the truth,” Birragni chuckled softly. “Actually, what I meant was I love your lot, because you’re so… sterile. In fact, that’s it – it’s precisely _because_ you are so sterile.”

“I never would have taken you for a hypochondriac.”

“Quite the opposite, if you put it like that. Think, Narvin. Imagine what it must mean for someone like you to listen, and then to _feel_ something. You are given a gift like mine, to make people feel, even people like yourself, people so clean and so calculating with their emotions – that being made to feel, by a voice like mine…” Birragni  hesitated. “Well,” he said at last. “You can’t say no to a talent like that.”

Narvin considered that, and thought of the way his very pores betrayed him, hairs on the back of his neck lifting as if to greet the tone. “No,” he allowed, “I suppose I cannot deny you that.”

“Neither can I,” Birragni murmured. “Perhaps I’m overly optimistic, perhaps people do not feel as much as they appear to. But the fact of the matter is, I cannot say no, to singing. Not when…”

A pause rang out between them, and Narvin listened.

“I wasn’t always this way,” Birragni confessed. His head settled once more into the curve of his neck, and his fingertips brushed up and down and up again along his arm until Narvin’s skin pulled up into gooseflesh under his barely-clinging robes, as if in an attempt to rise up above his blood and touch more than this feathery transient whisper which was granted him, and Birragni went on with his eyes cast aside, “I had to learn how to sing and once I did then I could not go back. I love it. I love what I do. Tell me, how many people do you know – really know? – who can make something out of nothing? Well, Narvin, I can, and I know what it is like not to be able to, and I do not want to go back there ever again.”

“How long have you sung then.”

“All my life,” He admitted. Then there bloomed the smile as he laughed “And a good thing my craft is singing not standing, isn’t it, way you’ve got me cradled in your arms, I’d almost think you were softer than you care to show people,” and the words were accented with more, softer laughter.

The joke settled uncomfortably and Narvin had just begun to hypothesize, to wonder if this all did not boil down to some ridiculous fetish, when he made to sit up. But the singer took his hand and hummed and Narvin followed, letting the man coax him back down until this time Narvin’s head too laid tucked against the singer’s throat. And Birragni began to idly hum when under even the sound of that, Narvin could hear four and four and four and then he almost stopped breathing, because there were four hearts in the room and this time when he sat up the singer could not stop him.

“You have two hearts.”

“Yes?” the singer asked.

“Time Lords have two hearts.”

The singer lifted a brow, looking amused. “As do Issanti, and Ptaxians, and the grilics of Tershon.”

“None of which have even vaguely similar morphologies.”

Birragni smiled and shook his head, softly. “I’m not,” he said.

“And I am supposed to take your word for that?”

“I don’t know,” Birragni said. “Will you?”

Narvin did not know what to think anymore. Subterfuge or under the table negotiations, even dirty politics would have been easier answers to look into than this. He glared at the singer and wondered just when the answers would come.

“I don’t suppose,” Narvin said, his voice low and dark, “that you’d extend your cooperation to a DNA sample?”

Birragni blinked, just once.

“Of course, Commander,” he said. “Perhaps we can even get dressed, first.”

Narvin curled his fingers in the edges of his robe and pulled it back around himself, without a word forthcoming.

\--

Narvin ran the DNA results. And then, he ran it through the Matrix records.

“But how,” he whispered into the solitude. “How is that possible?”

\--

“Commander Narvin. You wanted to speak with me?”

“Birragni is a Time Lord.”

“—the singer, from Hfvaral VI?”

“He’s got two hearts. I ran the DNA scan, it is definitely Time Lord.”

“Then who is he?”

Narvin hesitated.

“That’s just it,” he muttered. “There’s no one with his specific signature. Nothing – no one on Gallifrey, no renegades, nothing. The Matrix insists that he doesn’t exist.”

Vansell considered this.

“Could it have been contaminated?” he said at last.

“What—”

“The DNA sample, Narvin, _could it have been compromised_?”

Narvin thought back to the kiss, and the touches that followed, and the grasping hands and the murmurs which he could not deny had brought some quiet to his mind, and the smell which was not his own and which had the telltale savory note of something foreign against the metallic cleanliness of his society.

“I don’t think—”

“ _Could_ it have been?”

Narvin hesitated. “It is possible,” he allowed.

“Commander, I’ll have to ask you not to waste my time. If he were still a citizen of Gallifrey, we would have Matrix records on him. If he is not in the renegade files—”

“Even if he wasn’t a Time Lord, say he stole the DNA? Rassilon forbid if someone managed to make something with it? Worse, what if he is – what _if_ he were Time Lord, and what if this man has somehow found a way to _tamper_ with the Matrix records—?”

“Narvin.”

The silence that followed must have had lineage traced down from obsidian and diamond, for how hard and sharp it cut the air. At last, the Coordinator sighed. “ _Don’t_ push your luck. If you want to go on a wild goose chase, do it on your own time. I have other matters to attend, Commander.”

“Coordinator—”

“You are dismissed, Commander.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time, Coordinator.”

\--

It was a long shot. But Narvin was not one for leaving mysteries on the table.

\--

They hardly said a word to each other, this time. But Narvin came in with minimal announcement, and found Vitale waiting there in the rooms for him.

“And?” he asked.

“It seems you weren’t lying after all – at least, not that we can tell. The results were inconclusive and, I’m told, what with the Academy opening to the alien students, we’ll more than have our hands full, soon. I’m not to pursue it. We are to believe you, and what you say.”

“This sounds so final,” Birragni said.

“With any luck, it is,” Narvin said, his tone caught between severe and disgusted.

Birragni seemed to take this knowledge quietly. He said slowly, “I hear you won’t be staying for the show, tonight.”

“No time, I am afraid.”

“Perfectly understandable. Best of luck, with whatever it is that is taking your time. And best of luck, with everything on Gallifrey.”

Amiable silence greeted them, or at least the space between them, or at least the silence rung and colored the intervals of breath between their individual flesh, until by virtue of the fact that both of them breathed, they might as well have touched. Given the span of two breaths – one for him and one for the other– Vitale stepped forward, placing his hand – as if he had the spot memorized already – below Narvin’s ear and just against his jaw, and he used that leverage in that coaxing gentle way that Narvin knew, now, so that he went easily and they kissed. Narvin returned it and he opened his lips and they kissed more, touching one another inside and out until they could taste each other on their teeth and their lips and tongues, and then Narvin slipped away, and Vitale slid his hand against Narvin’s neck until it fell away between them and replaced the space, and he smiled that damned vague enigmatic smile that Narvin did not know if he hated or questioned more.

Narvin grimaced, as per habit, and waited out the sinking of his stomach while the singer serenely smiled and waved. He turned his slender head and looked back into the mirror and all Narvin could see was the reflection of slender cheekbones and his downcast, wondering eyes, and the bared, naked slope of his nape, up to where his spine proudly mounted the prize of his existence, the throat and tongue and lips from which the voice was borne.

He watched. And then he turned away and left the way he came, left through the door and the halls and the sound and into his TARDIS and when he did he stopped and kept his eyes focused ahead as pressed the tip of his tongue against his teeth. It tasted of the lingering vibrato, like that of an aria, like the flavor he now recognized as nothing other.

After a moment, Narvin reached for the probe. He opened his mouth and touched the delicate needle-point tip to the side edge of his tongue and, with it, eased up the small patch of cell-thin graft which as well kept the taste of Vitale, down to the enzymes and amino strands and biological imprint. Narvin took a moment – just one – to look at it held posed upon the point, the translucent strip of cell-small receptacles now brimming, and he noted, again, and not entirely passively, the way his organs dropped down, and down.

And then he placed the strip into a vial, sealed it up, and set the coordinates for home.

\--

The DNA, upon this second inspection, was undeniably Time Lord.

He ran it through the Matrix records, all living Time Lords.

Results: inconclusive.

\--

“Fancy seeing you here,” Braxiatel said when Narvin entered.

“Shut it,” Narvin snapped. “I hardly even know why I come back to you—”

“You come back, Narvin, because I know just as you do that no one else has listened, thus-far. And because I can help you. I can tell you exactly where you’ve gone wrong.”

“Ah,” Narvin snapped. “And where might that be?”

“What was your mistake the last time, Narvin?”

“What?”

“Your mistake. All those years ago, Narvin, and I was still alive, I remember. So this I can say for certain: the device disappeared right before your eyes, and because you could no longer see it, you thought it could no longer be a danger.”

Narvin glared. “And what is that supposed to mean? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” Braxiatel replied. “Between you and I, Narvin, I only know what mistake you’ve made. And knowing me, and how I was, how you remember me… I think I can safely say – predict, if you will – that even when we try our hardest, mistakes sometimes repeat themselves.”

“Braxiatel, I—” Narvin stopped himself before he could explicitly ask – or, Rassilon forbid, beg – the help of a bloody projection, and steeled himself into composition. “I have checked all the biodata records, and through the renegade listings. Birragni isn’t there. There is no way that he is a Time Lord.”

“Rubbish. Of course he is. Even you know that, commander.”

Narvin threw up his arms – or would have, had he been more than a projection, himself – and his voice strained until it was a quarter of an octave higher pitched than usual. “But the Matrix—”

“Ask the right questions, Narvin,” Braxiatel said, “ask the right questions and the answers will come.”

“You are the opposite of helpful,” Narvin informed him.

Braxiatel only smiled.

\--

Several microspans went by with nothing to show but the occasional deeper turn of his frown and the rearranging of a few more papers. He picked up the original signature and name and stared, sighed.

Ask the right questions. The bastard.

After a time, he closed his eyes to breathe. He collected his thoughts and looked back. It must be there. It must be.

He counted what he had to work with. Handwriting, neat, just loose enough. He was not nervous when he signed. Ink, black. No splotches.  Vitale Birragni, it read, completely the man’s own writing down to the looping strokes of the B and the very cross dotting the final i.

Narvin paused as he looked and found suddenly that his blood had stopped, nearly pulsing backwards through the next beat of his hearts.

It would be difficult for Narvin to describe exactly what happened in that moment, besides. It was less of a tide and too hollow an epiphany to give credit to surprise, shock, or even horror. What he felt was none of these things at all, but instead an opening of his cells into a cool air he had not known he breathed. Reality, it seemed, was yet again infinitely odder than even the fiction which names and faces lent appearances to.

This time, when Narvin took up the pen and wrote out the name, he made at the end of those fourteen letters one line, then another, crossing them in the center as if he could close off this deep, terrible, expansive knowing with the simple symbol.

He put down his pen and looked at the page, and what it now read.

Vitale Birragni x.

“No,” he whispered.

Slowly he opened the file for cross-reference. “Show me,” he said, “the listed names of documented renegades.”

At first, the computer pulled up nothing. He closed his eyes and remembered his mistake so long ago, letting go that which had already disappeared from his sight. Ask the right question, Narvin.

He opened his eyes.

“Give me,” he told it, slowly, “the listed names of documented renegades and their off-world aliases.”

The list narrowed down. He licked his lips and found that his tongue felt dry.

“Include those labeled as deceased or otherwise unviable.”

The new list came up. He skimmed it over until he found the one. He looked at the paper, then at the screen, counted each of the letters, checked again what characters he had to work with, and when he was done he looked down again at the paper, and his still, horrified hands.

“Oh, Rassilon,” Narvin breathed.

\--

Narvin slipped into the Matrix with a wary sort of apprehension, knowing both that his knowledge and expectations built the Matrix, and worse that the composite knowledge within would tell him no lies. You ask for the past and it will show you the past, but if you are smart enough to know the present, Narvin knew. He knew. He took a deep false breath because the Matrix had no air but years of training had taught him how to catch his bearings.

He steeled himself and asked into the emptiness.

“Braxiatel,” he called.

“Except,” said a voice behind him, “That isn’t really who you’re looking for, is it?”

Narvin turned slowly, knowing the voice, and knowing preemptively the smile. “Irving Braxiatel,” he said, slowly, with less venom than he intended and infinitely more resignation. “Hello,” he murmured.

The face of Vitale Birragni smiled back at him, and replied, “Hello, Narvin.”


End file.
